Chapter twenty one: Lucien returns
The night had worn on, and yet something in Lucien's marrow refused to settle.
Far from the ballroom, deep within the catacombs of House Vaelric's extended territories—where he had gone to deal with matters few dared speak of—he paused.
There was a stir in the air.
A ripple.
Then a pull.
Not physical, not even magical in the traditional sense. It was visceral, coiled tightly beneath his skin like a predator roused.
He exhaled slowly, trying to ignore it, trying to file the sensation among the many unnatural occurrences that threaded through his life. But it returned.
Harder. Fiercer.
A lash against his spine.
His gloved hands clenched.
"Elira," he murmured under his breath, the name curling like smoke through his lips.
He vanished in the next breath—disappearing from the shadowed crypts in a whirl of dark wind and ancient spellcraft.
The ballroom still shimmered with false gaiety.
Laughter echoed from perfumed mouths, glasses clinked with wines laced in secrets, and nobles smiled like jackals.
Then the doors blew open.
A cold gust swept in.
The manor greeted him with polite chatter as he crossed the threshold: bowing servants, startled glances from passing nobles, the polite rustle of gowns and coats. He ignored each one. His boots echoed on marble floors as he strode straight through the corridors, eyes flicking over every door frame, every lantern's glow. Midnight cloaked around him like a second skin.
But she was not where she should have been.
Where was she?
The unease became a gnawing thing.
He paused at the foot of the grand staircase and turned, gaze sweeping the crowd. And there—by the ornate banister—stood Lady Ravienne, her expression flawless, and Seliora at her side, her smile thin and expectant.
Ravienne, draped in elegance and feigned innocence, her smile sharpening as she noticed him. And beside her, Seliora, preening like a swan bathing in red wine.
"My son," Ravienne purred, lifting her chin. "You've returned so soon. Would it pain you so much to greet your mother properly?"
Lucien stopped in front of her.
Those pale, piercing eyes of his didn't blink.
"I will not ask again," he said quietly, voice smooth as winter glass. "Where is she?"
Something in Ravienne's expression flickered. But she recovered, lips curling.
"She's resting. The poor dear overexerted herself. You must understand—balls can be so exhausting for someone of her... disposition."
Seliora added, tilting her glass, "Indeed. Some of us are made for the Court. Others... wilt under candlelight, you know how frail she is."
Lucien's eyes didn't leave Ravienne's.
Ravienne faltered slightly. "She is in her room. Under the care of the staff. There was no need to disturb—"
He strode past them without another word, the hush of the gathering following in his wake.
The East Wing corridor was cooler, hushed by thick tapestries.
The door opened like a breath sucked inward.
Mirelle jumped to her feet at the sound. Mirra, the head maid, knelt by Elira's bedside, grinding herbs into a heated poultice.
Alric stood nearby, hands behind his back, tension knotted in every muscle.
Lucien halted before them. Alric stepped forward with a bow that trembled ever so slightly.
"My lord," Alric said, voice hushed. "She—she collapsed at the ball. We brought her here."
Lucien entered without invitation. The three caretakers clustered around the bed where Elira lay, pale and motionless, her dark hair spread like a halo. Valerian steam curled in a small brazier beside her, and frostroot poultices lay at her feet.
He crossed to the bedside with silent purpose. His hand slid from its glove, and he touched her forehead. It was warm—scorching, even beneath his palm. Elira's eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks, but she did not wake.
Lucien's throat moved once, as though swallowing words. He leaned down, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His fingers trembled just imperceptibly.
"Foolish girl," he whispered, not to the room, but to her.
A moment passed—ten heartbeats in a world gone still.
His jaw tightened.
Something ancient stirred behind his eyes. A stillness that came before a storm—unnerving in its quiet.
"Who did this?" he asked, voice low. Lethal.
Alaric straightened. "Milord… she was offered a drink by Lady Seliora. Mere moments later, she collapsed."
Lucien's gaze remained fixed on Elira, but his fingers twitched, curling as if around an invisible throat.
"There's more," Alaric said, swallowing once. "Lord Alric…he drank from her."
Silence.
Lucien didn't move. Not at first.
But a darkness crept across his face, inch by inch, like a slow eclipse swallowing the sun.
He stood.
Slowly.
With unnatural grace.
He pulled his glove back on, one finger at a time—precise, restrained, but not calm.
No. There was nothing calm in the storm rising beneath his ribs.
"Where is he now?" he asked.
Alaric hesitated. "Still in the manor. Downstairs, boasting."
Lucien's jaw worked as if grinding stone.
But his eyes—those cold, ancient eyes—returned to Elira. Her skin was too pale now. Lips dry. The pulse at her throat fluttering like moth wings.
Something inside him shifted.
Fractured.
He knelt beside the bed again. The others watched in silence, unsure if they were witnessing devotion… or wrath.
Lucien's voice was low. "Leave us."
Mirelle opened her mouth, but Alaric touched her arm, guiding her and Mirra away without question.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Now it was just him and her.
Elira lay still, chest rising in shallow breaths. Her lashes trembled faintly, but her eyes did not open. Fever heat clung to her skin, though her fingertips were already cooling.
Lucien reached out, brushing damp strands from her temple. His touch was careful. Gentle, even.
But his face…
His face was anything but.
"You let him touch you?" he murmured, more to himself than her.
Not accusation. Not fury.
A wound, spoken aloud.
Then, softer, with something breaking behind his voice, "You don't belong to him."
He pressed his hand lightly to the collar at her neck.
Still bound. Still his.
But she was slipping.
He could feel it. Through the blood-seal. Through the unnatural quiet in her spirit.
He leaned down, forehead nearly resting against hers. He stayed like that, eyes closed, breathing her in as though scent alone could anchor her to the world.
"I warned you," he whispered, voice hoarse, "this place devours the soft-hearted."
And then he did what he hated most.
He bared his fangs—not in hunger, but in necessity.
Lucien pressed his mouth to the place just beneath her jaw, and this time, when he bit, it wasn't to take. It was to tether.
To reclaim what had been tainted.